


Of All The Gin Joints

by EmRosie



Category: Harry Potter - Fandom, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Based on a Fall Out Boy Song, Drarry, Drarrython, Fall Out Boy Lyrics, First Kiss, Love, M/M, Nightmares, Songfic, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-31
Updated: 2016-06-03
Packaged: 2018-07-11 10:31:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7044748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmRosie/pseuds/EmRosie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the war, Harry learns he can use his influence to save people, no matter if those people want to be saved or not. He never thought Draco Malfoy would be one of those people. He certainly didn't think of the consequences that could follow it. “Sometimes,” Malfoy began, in a low, honest whisper “I just want to know what it’s like to be you.” Harry/Draco. Drarry. HPDM.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I’m back with another song-related two-shot! This one is inspired by – as anyone who knows the band may have guess by now! – Fall Out Boy’s song “Of all the gin joints in all the world”. The story is set straight after the war, in the heat of the Death Eater trails so in that way could be considered epilogue compliment as technically these events could have happened – but all us Drarry fans much prefer to pretend that pesky epilogue was never written, don’t we? ;)
> 
> P.S Part 2 should be posted by the end of the week - I've written it just need to re-read and check!

Of All the Gin Joints  
Part 1: Who I Really Am

“You’ve done what?” Harry growled, his voice low and his emerald eyes flashing as he surveyed the Auror’s before him. One cowered completely in on himself, slinking back a step without looking as if he were retreating, keeping his eyes anywhere but Harry. The other – the one who had told Harry what they had done – straightened his back a little, drawing himself up to his full height. His eyes gave the suggestion he felt the same as his partner, but had the balls to act otherwise. Harry considered admiring him for his courage; then snorted. The man before him was taller than Harry, a qualified Auror, and a fully grown man. Harry was, despite his name and fame, still a seventeen year old boy who hadn’t even completed his Hogwarts education. 

But defeating a Dark Lord feared by the majority of the wizarding world had given Harry power that he had, after a wrestle with his conscience, realised he would be foolish not to wield when it mattered. 

“We were simply following orders, Mr Potter.” The auror said. His voice was slow and careful; to an outsider listening in Harry could see how he may appear to have the cool, authoritative persona he was clearly attempting to portray. Harry - who could see the way his adam’s apple quivered in his throat, who could see the way he nervously licked his lips before he spoke, who could hear the very slight inflections of his tone, suggesting the tension that rippled through him - wasn’t fooled. “We we’re told if his testimonies are to be validated are to be held up to the Wizengamot to be used to buy his freedom as you suggested, that we would need to have substantial evidence.” 

“You cannot use veritaserum on a wizard against his will.” Harry snarled. Yes, he had made such suggestions – he had never given anyone the idea that they should force feed veritaserum down innocent men’s throats. 

“We’re at war, Mr Potter.” The auror informed him with a grim, gritty tone with a glare to match. His words seemed firmer now, more assured in his reasoning, the strength in his belief giving him the power to draw himself up to Harry with more meaning. 

Harry would soon put an end to that.

“We were at war. Or did you miss the part where I killed Voldemort?” He let the name leave his lips like the hiss of a rattlesnake and took great delight in seeing the shudder which ran down the spines of both aurors. He took the opportunity to elbow past both men and head for the small, metal door behind them. It was at the foot of the corridor, a sleek, polished door with no windows, bolted sturdily to its frame. It was closed with a simple, functional handle which looked as if it offered no defence. Harry, however, wasn’t fooled.

He delivered the non-verbal charm he knew would permit him to unlock and open the door – of course the Ministry wouldn’t house its most wanted, most dangerous, most high-profile prisoner’s behind simple ‘Alohomora’s’ – and turned back to offer the two wizards a smirk. They were staring, open mouthed in surprise at the fact that Harry knew how to gain entrance to their most secured cells. 

Being friends with Kingsley Shacklebolt, who was certain to become the next Minister for Magic unless any opposition arose, definitely had its advantages. 

As Harry stepped through the door he was greeted by the man himself. He stood, in robes of a magnificent glittering purple, looming down with a poker straight stare over the slender, pale wizard handcuffed to the chair he sat in. 

“Potter.” 

The greeting came without emotion. None of the awe, none of the reverence, none of the worship Harry was now becoming used to hearing from the majority of the wizarding world. None of the malice, none of the hatred, none of the loathing he was used to hearing from the Death Eater’s he saw as he helped the Ministry round up and imprison those who remained. None of the gentle care, none of the caution, none of the genuine love he was used to hearing from those who remained by his side; Ron, Hermione, the Weasley’s. 

Nothing. 

“Malfoy.” He greeted in return, keeping his tone just as neutral. He didn’t spared a glance at the state of his former rival, who appeared lost and broken in every way, from the sallow of his skin, the lank state of his hair, to the way the bones in his wrist seemed to protrude more than was healthy. The war had been hard on Malfoy, Harry knew, as it had been on him. But there was no sign of mistreatment since and that was what he was interested in. When satisfied that Malfoy was as well as he could be, Harry turned his attention to Kingsley and asked; “Did you authorise them to use veritaserum without his consent?” 

Kingsley took a deep breath, barely parting his lips as he hissed in the air. He looked 10 years older than he did since the day Voldemort fell. He knew times were hard for the Ministry, rounding up and trailing the Death Eaters, uncovering the traitors from their own ranks, issuing support and advice for the public in general. If the way Kingsley looked, however, was the price a wizard had to pay to be Minister, Harry wouldn’t be in a rush to put himself forward. “You can’t just come storming into interrogations, Harry, especially if you aren’t accepting the request to join the Auror programme as I’m sure you’ve just informed Robard’s.” He held Harry’s gaze for a moment until he nodded, confirming Kingsley’s suspicions as true – he had just left the office of Robards, politely putting off his invitation to join the aurors until he’d had some more time to think about his life. Kingsley sighed, his chastise fading away as if he knew Harry wouldn’t listen. “The Wizengamot demanded it. I told them of the bargain, I told them that you wanted to make it. Your name holds power, Harry, greater power than mine, yet we still can’t overthrow one of the oldest, most respected heirachies of this Ministry – of the entire wizard world, not just Britain – I knew they would have a price.”

Harry dropped the glare he hadn’t realised he was still wearing, lowered his shoulders from their aggressive, battle-ready stance they had taken against the two aurors in the corridor, and looked at Kingsley as if he were the man he respected from the Order, not the soon-to-be Minister. “You should have told me.” He murmured simply, because he couldn’t let his discomfort at the situation go unregistered. “I could have spoken to them.”

Kingsley shrugged as if considering the idea. “I could have, it could have worked, if you spoke directly to them. But that would have taken time. Time that we don’t have in our current situation; I’ve got people on my back about why there aren’t more wizards with the Dark Mark behind bars, especially when I’ve got one sitting in a Ministry cell. We needed to act.” 

“I understand.” Harry admitted, raking a hand through his hair in a gesture he knew made him look every inch the seventeen year old boy that part of him still was, rather than the hardened, battle-worn hero most of the world admired him as. “I trust that they will accept the evidence he has given, then?” 

Kingsley nodded, pulling three vials from his robes. Each was clouded with a silver, gas-like substance which Harry recognised immediately as memories. “Perkins, Broadfoot and I all extract out memories of our questioning. I’ll send these to the Wizengamot to review but I’m more than confident they will agree them sufficient to bargain with, especially given the weight of your support. Of course, they will insist the evidence is repeated – again under veritaserum – at each of the Death Eater’s trials-“

“Who says I want to make such a bargain?” 

Harry almost jumped, startled by the harsh interjection. He was met with the glaring, hard face of Malfoy as he sneered over at them. The sneer, during their time at Hogwarts, had been an impressive show of Malfoy’s arrogance, of his power. Now it looked sad and lost, a shadow of shattered pride on the face of a boy. He held his chin high, even when Harry levelled his stare toward him, in a way that made Harry rethink his previous assumptions; yes, the war had been hard on Malfoy, but clearly not hard enough to break his pride. Strangely, Harry was thankful for that.

“Because you would be extremely foolish not to,” Kingsley responded before Harry could, levelling Malfoy with a stare as stern as any Harry could hope to achieve. “Our current problem lies elsewhere. Mr Malfoy refuses to take residence in a Ministry safe house, and we simply cannot contain him in these holding cells any longer. We need to keep them free for the arrests we are likely to be making and we can’t free him until the Wizengamot declare his innocence, something they won’t do until he has given testimony against everyone they wish him to.” 

“Why?” Harry asked, addressing his question to Kingsley rather than Malfoy. Therefore, it was Kingsley who began to answer; “He believes that-“

“I can speak for myself, thank you.” Interrupted Malfoy’s sneer once again, cold and as crisp as ice. “Tell me, Potter. If you’re as concerned for my safety as your recent actions suggest, would you think a Ministry safe house truly safe for a wizard like me?”

“Ministry safe houses have the strongest wards possible. They’re all unplottable. There’s no way that anyone outside the Ministry would be abl-“ 

Yet again, Harry’s words were cut off by the chill of Malfoy’s tone. “And you don’t think, Potter, that there would be no one in this Ministry who would gladly reveal my location to the wrong eyes? You think there is not a soul here who know of my mark-“ Malfoy’s eyes flickered to his left forearm with a look of disgust so strong he looked as if he would be sick, yet he masked the emotion so quickly Harry barely recognised it “- and wouldn’t think what you’re doing an injustice? Someone who would be glad to give Death Eaters my location and the instructions to bypass the wards? That wouldn’t prefer me dead?” 

Harry was stunned into silence. His own gaze travelled to the forearm that Malfoy had glowered at as he imagined the mark burning beneath his skin. It was probably faded now, twisted into a dark, ugly mass in the same way that every Dark Mark had when Harry’s curse took the last of Voldemorts life. But it was still there, still recognisable, still a clear symbol of hatred for anyone who had lost someone. For any traitors the Ministry may still have undetected within its ranks. For anyone who was filled with grief and the desire for revenge. For anyone who would do anything for the right price. 

He nodded to Malfoy and turned back to Kingsley. “I’ve got to say I agree with him.” He admitted, already knowing what his response to be.

Indeed, Harry’s assumptions were proved correct when Kingsley asked; “Well what do you propose? We can’t keep him here any longer.” 

“He has Black blood.” He said, although he knew that wouldn’t actually explain anything to either of the wizards in the room. “Your mother was a Black before marriage, wasn’t she?” He directed his question to Malfoy – although he didn’t really need to ask it, after seeing the tapestry in Sirius’s home – who nodded his head with a questioning look. “I’ve returned to Grimmauld Place. You know as well as I do the precautions we’ve taken there.” Harry spoke directly to Kingsley now, who nodded. After the war had ended Harry returned with a few order members to check the property; he hadn’t returned since he, Hermione and Ron had abandoned it after Yaxley followed them back there. There were no traces of Dark magic or traps, the house had clearly been ransacked, but clearly the Death Eaters had enough brains to know Harry wouldn’t dare return. Since then they had helped Harry change the wards and secret keeper and, of course, the house itself was unplottable. Privacy, everyone agreed, that harry deserved after the war. “The ancient wards of the property that recognise any blood relatives will be more than enough to protect him and I’ll be there to keep an eye on him.” 

Kingsley nodded, clearly accepting the idea Harry was proposing. He turned to Malfoy, who had fallen suspiciously silent. “I trust you have no objections this time? Or would you find a cell in Azkaban more accommodating until you’re given your freedom?”

Malfoy gave two sharp, short jerks of his head that seemed to suggest acceptance and disagreement in all the right places. They were enough to please Kingsley who nodded and swept toward the door. “I’ll need to send these memories away. I’ll send Robards down to sort out the transfer. There was contracts to be sign, tracing charms to be placed, tag charms so he can’t leave the house…” Kingsley trailed off and waved his hand dismissively as he reached the door. “I’ll send him as a matter of urgency, then you can go home and I can have my cell back for someone who needs it. Goodbye, Harry.” 

“Bye.” Harry replied, although he found himself addressing a closed door as Kingsley slipped away and out into the corridor. He turned his gaze back to Malfoy, suddenly aware that they were the only two in the room. Harry pulled out one of the chairs placed for interrogators and sank himself into it. He raked his hands through his hair again, slouching in his chair with a sigh. When he looked over to Malfoy, he found himself shifting uncomfortably under the force of his stare. Again, as his tone of greeting had been, it wasn’t full of admiration or wonder that he had become used to seeing, nor was it full of the resentment or revulsion he had seen in the weeks gone by. His head was titled to the side, his eyes wide and firmly placed on Harry, his whole gaze quietly questioning as if Harry were a particularly bewildering Arithmancy problem he had been given to solve. Harry held the gaze for a while, challenging Malfoy to back down. After a silent battle of their eyes, it became clear Malfoy wasn’t going to back down. The longer he stared, the more Harry felt as if the interrogation of his gaze was boring into his very soul. After another minute had passed he could bear it no longer and snapped; “What?”

A moments more silent passed and Harry scowled at Malfoy who, after what seemed like an eternity, finally shrugged as a soft expression which made him look startlingly younger than the seventeen years Harry knew him to be took over his face. “Sometimes,” he began, in a whisper so low Harry had to strain to catch it. “I just want to know what it’s like to be you.” 

Harry blinked, waiting for the sneer or the insult that he was certain would follow such a statement. Malfoy’s gaze held with his grey eyes clear and unwavering as he stared back at Harry. No matter how Harry stared he could see no arrogance, no offense glittering beneath the surface. The only emotion he saw – briefly, as when it broke through Malfoy dropped his gaze to hide it – was raw honesty. 

That realisation made Harry even more uncomfortable than the interrogation of his gaze had. He sat for a moment, letting the implications of Malfoy’s statement wash over him. On the surface, the words were ones that Harry was confident most of the wizarding world would say with casual certainty right now; he was, whether he liked it or not, the most famous wizard in Britain at the moment. No doubt scores of wizards and witches would love to be him, to feel his power, his influence, his strength; they were all traits Harry knew Malfoy valued, yet Harry didn’t think his statement was meant for those reasons. After a moment, he swallowed and decided the only way to respond to honesty was honesty. “You only hold me up like that, because you don’t know who I really am.”

Malfoy raised his eyebrow, but said nothing, and the pair sat in silence until Robards came to release them. 

-o-

After forms had been signed, warnings had been given, shackles had been released Harry and Malfoy arrived back at Grimuald Place late that evening. Harry apparated them directly onto the top step and opened the door, ushering Malfoy inside. His guest sneered around at the empty walls, half-torn paper and creaking floorboards. Harry didn’t know why, but he felt his cheeks burn with embarrassment as he looked around, as if seeing his house for the first time. He felt the need to explain, so he said;

“I’m, uh… I’m renovating. It was left to me by my godfather, but it was… Well… It just seemed to reek of Dark magic, y’know?” Harry had meant the comment conversationally, but the way Malfoy’s face blanched reminded Harry all to quickly that he did, in fact, know the feeling all too well. He cleared his throat, loudly and obviously, before pressing on. “So I’m doing it up... Making it a nice place to live… The place Sirius would have liked it to be.” It was a lame finish and it made Harry’s heart burn with the thought of Sirius, but at least they had moved past his misplaced comment. 

He stepped forward, leading the way inside the house, stopping in the doorway to the longue when he realised Malfoy wasn’t following him. He stood, as frozen as statue, staring blankly into mid-air. 

Perhaps they hadn’t moved past Harry’s misplaced comment, Harry thought, as he started after Malfoy for a moment, waiting for him to move. Perhaps it wasn’t so easy to forget Voldemort turning your childhood home into his home. 

“Malfoy..” 

The owner of the name looked up, blinked, and followed Harry into the lounge. 

Kreacher provided plates of sandwiches and tea; it was simple, quick food that Harry was sure Malfoy would turn his nose up at, especially give his look in the hallway. But instead he grabbed at the slices hungrily, holding a beef sandwich in one hand as he ate a chicken and stuffing from the other. Harry tried not to watch, but the desperation with which Malfoy ate, keeping his gaze determinedly away from Harry, made him feel uncomfortable. Soon enough the plate had been cleared – Harry had purposely eaten slower, to ensure Malfoy got the fill he needed – and the teapot had been drained empty.

“I’ll show you where you can stay.” Harry said, when Kreacher had appeared and taken the empty plate and mugs from them, standing once again to allow Malfoy to follow. He lead him up the staircase and down the first, narrow corridor. He found himself inexplicably glad that he had renovated all three of the bedrooms on this floor as he paused outside one for Malfoy. 

“You can stay in here.” He said, pushing the door open and nodding inside. It wasn’t the standard he was used to in the Manor, Harry knew, but it was clean and fresh and surely a lot more comfortable than the cell he had become accustomed to at the Ministry. “My rooms just down the hall, if you need anything.” He added, nodding back over his shoulder to the room at the far end of the corridor. 

Malfoy stopped in the door way, looked into the room Harry offered, then over his shoulder to where he had gestured. He caught Harry’s gaze after that, held it for a moment – no more than a few seconds – before nodding, sweeping inside and closing the door behind him.

Harry sighed as the heavy oak swung in his face. That was, he knew, the closest he’d get to a polite thank you. 

-o-

In the middle of the night, Harry awoke to screaming. First, the sound took him straight back to the midst of the war, he fumbled for his wand and then his glasses, rolling out of bed to search for the voice, the person the sound was coming from, to save them from the danger they were surely in –

Wait.

He rolled out of bed.

Harry drummed his toes against the thick carpet of his room and waved his wand to light it up. He was in his room, the war was over. 

So was the screaming.

Surely he hadn’t dreamt it? Harry hadn’t had nightmares… He hadn’t had nightmares since he started taking Dreamless sleep each night. He’d only been taking it for a week or two, surely he hadn’t already become immune to its –

The scream sounded again, interrupting Harry’s thoughts, and that’s when he remembered.

“Malfoy.” 

Why he said the name aloud, he wasn’t sure, but with wand in hand he tore from his room, raced down the corridor and flung open the door to the room he had given away. In the darkness he could make out Malfoy, writhing in the sheets of the double bed, his face twisted in pain, just visible in the shadows of the room. Silence resounded again, and Harry paused in the doorway, the adrenaline that had brought him here now gone. 

“No… No… No, anything. No, don’t do it… No…” Malfoy’s screams had given way to pleading, so raw and painful Harry responded without thinking. He leapt toward the bed, throwing himself down onto the mattress and shaking the other man awake. 

“Malfoy! Malfoy!” He called, firmly, loudly, but as calmly as he could. He didn’t want to panic him more; he knew from experience how a being woken by someone wild could only prolong the terror. He took him solidly by the shoulders, lifting him from his pillows with the force of his shake. “Malf-“

He stopped as, even in the dark of the room, he saw the other man’s eyes snap wide open. They were round, terrified orbs of white shining in the darkness until their owner remembered his surroundings, realised who was holding him, and shot back against the pillows. 

“You were having a nightmare.” Harry felt the need to explain as Malfoy slipped from beneath his fingers. He didn’t know what else to say.

“I’m aware of that Potter.” Malfoy sneered - well, Harry was certain he would want it to have been a sneer. He would have wanted Harry to think he was cool and aloof but his tone shook, his voice wavered with the residual fear of his mind, betraying his anxiety to Harry. “Come to gloat? Come to say I deserve it, after everything I did?”

“What – no – why? Who…” Harry trailed off as Malfoy recovered enough to give him a single, withering look. Harry thought back to the way some guards had sneered with clear contempt as Malfoy’s chains were unshackled, the way he had attacked the sandwiches Harry gave as if it were Hogwarts finest end of year feast… It didn’t take Harry long to work out why he might think he had come to mock him. “No. The opposite. I’ve had nightmares too. It’s natural; we were all affected by the war. If you weren’t, you aren’t human.” As he spoke Harry found he was repeating the words of the Healer he’d had to see to get an extended agreement for Dreamless sleep potion. At the time he had thought them useless; flowery, sympathetic talk to make him feel better. Of course it hadn’t at the time – nothing had but the prescription in his hand. 

Strange, that those words would soothe him now.

Clearly Malfoy was as sceptical as Harry had been, his brow had quirked in what Harry was certain was meant to be an intimidating gesture, but wobbled so furiously with his nerves any menace was lost. Harry held out his hand, and called;

“Accio Dreamless sleep.”

The vial soared from Harry’s room through Malfoy’s open doorway and slapped into Harry’s hand, the liquid sloshing gently against the glass at the sudden contact. 

“I’m not weak, Potter.” Malfoy sneered – or, at least, attempted too. His bottom lip curled and he lifted his chin with an air of defiance – or, at least, it would have been if his bottom lip hadn’t trembled and his eyes had met Harry’s. 

“You think I’m weak?” Harry shot back. It wasn’t meant as a challenge yet it came from his lips as one; after all, he had once suffered through the same self-hatred, refusing to take the Healers help. His words seemed to startle Malfoy who simply gaped at Harry in silence. 

He took the opportunity to push forwards. “They prescribed it to me, after the war.” He explained, as he sat the vial down on Malfoy’s bedside table. “You can have what’s left of this; I’ve got another in my room.” 

When it became clear Malfoy wasn’t going to respond Harry sighed, pushed himself up off the bed, and headed for the door. As he closed the door he saw the other man hadn’t moved; he sat stoically against his pillows, as frozen as he had been in Harry’s hallway earlier that evening, the potion bottle untouched. When Harry returned the heavy oak to its frame he paused, waiting outside the door. After only a moment, he heard the faint uncorking of the bottle, the familiar sound of a glug of potion, and the clink as the glass was placed back down on the bedside table. 

-o-

The next morning, Harry got the owl which informed them of Malfoy’s first court date. He was to testify first against Amycus Carrow only two days from now. The letter than proceeded to lay out the other days Malfoy would testify.

Harry swallowed as his eyes scanned the list. Name after name, day after day. The parchment was a thick, unforgiving list of names Malfoy was expected to speak against. For the first time, Harry wondered if his idea had been so clever after all; would Malfoy have enough information? Would he have enough against each wizard to convince the Wizengamot he was a helpful witness, deserving of his own freedom? Would he even know all of these names? 

Harry folded the parchment and put it away. He decided not to worry about that for now. 

He knocked on Malfoy’s door. When there was no response he entered anyway to find him sitting at the foot of the bed, staring unseeing through the open window. He told Malfoy he would be testifying against Carrow in two days’ time. Malfoy nodded.

Neither of them mentioned the night before. 

Harry slipped away. 

-o-

The trial for Carrow was… 

Malfoy’s name was called and he was pulled out into the centre of the cold, stone room. He was treated no differently than Carrow himself. The Wizengamot’s eyes narrowed with hatered, they shifted in their seats with distrust. 

It had been…

Malfoy had answered the questions in a stoic, detached voice. He had given all the answers required of him, confirmed the Ministry’s allegations against Carrow. Confirmed the names of the witches and wizards who had fallen to his hand, whilst the Wizengamot sneered down at him, some even daring to mutter through his testimony as if his words didn’t matter…

The whole ordeal had been…

As Malfoy had finished he was dragged away once again. An Auror firm at his elbow, pulling him toward the holding chambers behind the courtroom from which Harry would collect him. As they passed the chair and chains that held down Carrow he lurched forward and spat in Malfoy’s face. The Auror said nothing – in fact, Harry would be willing to bet his Gringott’s vault that he smirked – and forced Malfoy’s hands harder to his sides, leaving him unable to wipe away the spit that clung to his cheek as he disappeared behind the door… 

Harry hadn’t been under any illusions that Malfoy would be warmly accepted in the courtrooms, but he had at least thought his testimony would be afforded a listening ear. He at least thought that if a prisoner were to defile a witness in such a way that they be appropriately reprimanded. 

So that was why, when they stepped out of the Floo and into Harry’s living room, he went straight for the drinks cabinet. He pulled out a bottle of Beefeater from the shelf and poured two tumblers without a second thought. He turned to find Malfoy still standing in the hearth; his face was waxy pale, his eyes wide and haunted. He hadn’t even moved to brush the ash from his robes. 

Harry stepped over, bringing himself directly in Malfoy’s line of vision. Eventually, when face to face with Harry, the other man blinked and brought himself back to his senses. As he snapped from his thoughts Harry lifted a glass, and simply said; “Drink.”

Malfoy eyed the glass with suspicion, watching as Harry tipped back both his head and the glass, sending the entire glass down his neck in a single, straight gulp. Harry shuttered, turned back to the cabinet again, and held the bottle out to Malfoy as he poured himself a second glass.

“It’s gin. A muggle drink… My Aunt Petunia always kept it in these glass bottles she made me clean for hours –“

“A decanter.” Malfoy interrupted, correcting him. Harry blinked for a moment, looking to Malfoy to find a trace of an all-knowing smirk on his face but there was none. His expression was harrowingly empty, as if his correction was nothing more than a reflex. “They’re usually made of crystal.” 

“Yes, well…” Harry faltered, unsure how to respond. If it had been Malfoy’s usual correction – well, the correction of the Malfoy he’d known before the war – full of self-importance and mockery, he would have been able to respond with a barb in return. But now his expression, his tone, held nothing. Harry tipped back a gulp of his second glass uneasily. “After hours cleaning them for her, watching her only take it out for their best guests… I always wanted to try it. After the war, I sort of developed an aversion to Firewhiskey… The burn against my throat…” He paused again, mentally kicking himself as Draco’s eyes glazed over. Of course Draco would understand that, he’d been in the fire too, hadn’t he? “That with the fact I can’t go shopping in Diagon Alley without getting followed everywhere. I’ve turned to muggle drinks.” 

When silence met his words Harry sighed, bringing the bottle with him as he sank down into an armchair. He sat, determinedly staring anywhere but Malfoy until he heard the creak of a chair as the blonde took the chair beside him. 

“Not bad,” came the voice that belonged to the owner as he put the glass down on the table between them. “Perhaps muggles don’t do too badly without magic.”

Unsure of what else to say, Harry took the opportunity to refill both glasses. 

“You did well today.” He blurted out after he refilled his fifth glass and Malfoy finished his third. Why he had been keeping track, he didn’t know. Why he chose to say that – of all things – he didn’t know. He couldn’t stand the silence any longer. 

“Don’t patronise me.” Malfoy’s reply was ice cold. Sharp, short and direct, his words hit Harry straight in the gut. He faltered uselessly, wondering what to say. He hadn’t meant to, of course he hadn’t – he meant it. He had been brave enough to stand; kept his head high in front of the open mutters, sneers and stares of the Wizengamot, kept his chin up as they all but ignored his testimony, kept his cool as Carrow spat in his face and the Auror – supposedly there for his protection – did nothing. Harry couldn’t have remained so calm, so detached, so unaffected, in the face of all of that. He couldn’t think of many people who would. He meant what he said. Malfoy had done well and Harry wanted him to know that. 

As if he had willed him too, Malfoy’s grey eyes snapped to his. Harry tried then to tell him without words. He tried to show him, through their gaze, that he thought him strong and brave. Braver than most Harry knew. 

“Please…” Malfoy whispered. His cold tone was replaced with a broken plea that shook Harry to his bones. Although he maintained the contact of their eyes, still willing Malfoy to believe him, he nodded his assent. When Malfoy dropped his gaze and turned away, Harry didn’t will it back.

“Well, tomorrow’s an early day too. I suppose we should… You can shower first?” Harry raised his voice toward the end as if it were a question, although he had no idea if he really meant it as one. He was, however, relieved when Malfoy nodded and left the room. 

Yet his departure did nothing to relieve the tension around Harry’s shoulders. Neither did slugging back the glass of gin he’d poured. Neither did hurling the empty glass at the wall, watching the shards as they rained down. 

Harry sighed, muttered a quiet Repairo and put the glass back on the side. When he padded down the corridor he and Malfoy slept in he could still hear the gush of water telling him the shower was still in use. The bathroom on the third floor, Harry knew, would work just as well. 

But he didn’t make it there. The door to Malfoy’s room stood ajar. A peak inside showed a neatly made bed, a smartly hung set of robes against the outside of the wardrobe… And an empty potion vial on the bedside table. Harry cast two charms in quick succession; the first vanished the empty vial. The second replaced it with a brand new bottle, fresh from Harry’s stores. 

He paused, debating with himself until he heard the shower close off. When he did he jumped, cast the third charm he considered, and quickly disappeared into his room. 

Beside the vial of potion now lay a small, square note, which simply said;

Sleep well.


	2. Part 2

The next two weeks were filled with more trials, more testimonies. Each was as horrific as the last, from those who Malfoy spoke against raging from silent distaste to outright rage, taunting him for being a traitor, spitting at his feet and threatening his life. Harry watched each trail; his fingers curling into fists, biting down so hard on his lip he often drew blood.

Each time he wanted to call out, he held himself back. He thought of the look on Malfoy’s face as he had whispered, please, the night after the first trial and he thought of how he nodded in return. He watched how Malfoy weathered each insult with his head held high. More importantly he watched how the Wizengamot stopped glaring, stopped sneering every time he spoke and began to listen. He watched as Malfoy’s testimonies helped put Dark witches and wizards in Azkaban. 

Each night continued the same way. They would come home, drink gin until Kreacher insisted they eat, then retire to bed. Harry made sure Malfoy’s bedside always held a vial of dreamless sleep. 

One night Harry found himself with nothing left.

Of course the nightmares came to him.

Of course the faces of the dead haunted him.

Of course he awoke, covered in cold sweat and screaming.

What surprised him was Malfoy, standing in the door way, the vial Harry had given him in hand. 

He padded into the room, sank down onto the bed beside Harry, and uncorked the vial before he offered it forward. There was only enough for one more drink.

“Sorry.” Harry muttered, feeling embarrassment heat his cheeks. “I forgot to go shopping. I haven’t anymore left.”

 

“Drink it.” Malfoy murmured, pushing the vial into Harry’s clammy hands. As soon as the cool glass was in his palm Harry clenched his fingers around it. As the vial exchanged hands their fingertips brushed and Harry’s skin sparked at the contact, sending flames running straight up to his heart. The feeling unsettled Harry more than anything else; if he had thought of resisting the potion, insisting Malfoy kept the last dose in case he needed it, his mind was definitely changed now. He didn’t want to analyse why a simple brush of fingers made his heart leap in such a way. He certainly didn’t want to risk dreaming about it. 

He gulped back every last drop of the potion greedily before settling the empty vial on his bedside table. “Thank you.” He whispered.

“No need for thanks, Potter.” Malfoy murmured in return. As he spoke he looked genuinely concerned, a small, gentle smile tugging at his lips at odds with an almost warm look in his eyes…. Then again, the room was only dimly lit from the corridor outside and Harry wasn’t wearing his glasses. He was probably seeing things. “It was your potion, after all.” 

Harry nodded the affirmative and pulled himself up a little in bed. Moments of silence passed between them. Malfoy shifted slightly and Harry was sure he was about to leave. 

Instead, he spoke.

“It sounded like you need it as much as I do. More, perhaps…” His voice was soft, so quiet Harry had to strain to hear it even in the silence of the room. “When I said I wanted to know what it’s like to be you… Maybe now I’m not so sure.” 

Harry couldn’t help the low, gentle chuckle which escaped him. “Maybe now you do know. Well, a little more than some people do… Maybe we have more in common than we thought.” Harry reached for his glasses, sliding them over his nose. They made his view of Malfoy a little clearer, but the dark of the room still didn’t help. Or, maybe, it did. Maybe it was darkness allowing this conversation, allowing their words to flow more easily. Whatever it was, Harry took the opportunity. “When you said that, that you wanted to know what it was like to be me… Why?”

The silence Harry was met with made his stomach drop, made him want to scramble to take back the question, apologise, change the subject, anything…. Until;

“When I was younger, I thought it was your fame, your power. It’s still your power, I suppose. You think any other wizard could storm up to the Minister and get a marked Death Eater released to his home?” Malfoy paused to laugh but the sound was dark and humourless. “You know what’s right – you didn’t follow a madman, you don’t have a father to obey.” Harry winced, thinking of just how much he’d consider having a father to obey a privilege. Then he thought of Lucius Malfoy, his cold face and willingness to throw his son to be Voldemort’s torturer…

Maybe Malfoy had a point after all.

Maybe he had a point, but Harry didn’t want to consider it.

“Tell me, do you ever dream of the fire?”

The words spilled from him before he could stop them, and Harry didn’t need his glasses to feel the way Malfoy stiffened at his words. Harry could have apologised, could have taken back his words or blabbered over them with something else entirely. But last time, Malfoy had responded. Somehiw Harry knew this time would be just the same so, instead, he waited. 

“All the time.” Malfoy whispered eventually. The admission was enough for Harry, yet Malfoy continued. “Sometimes you don’t make it in time and I fall with Crabbe. Sometimes it’s not Crabbe. Sometimes it’s my mother, or…” He stopped, as if suddenly realising he were speaking to Harry. 

“I dream of it too.” Harry whispered back, eager to put Malfoy at ease for reasons he couldn’t explain. “Much like you do… Sometimes I never reach you. Sometimes it’s not you, but Ron or Hermione or… Someone else. Someone else who died, who I couldn’t save. It’s like the dreams giving me a chance to save them, taunting me, because I didn’t save them when I could, and I can’t save them now…” The words tumbling from his lips were freer, more forthcoming than they had been with any healer. Maybe it was the darkness. Maybe it was the fact that Malfoy had the dreams too. Maybe it was the fact that Malfoy could understand – at least more than anyone in St Mungo’s robes could. 

“You couldn’t be expected to save everyone.” 

Malfoy’s reply was one he’d heard countless times before. From the Prophet who worshipped him, from the families of those who’d fallen when he visited with the plan of asking for forgiveness, only finding they felt he had done nothing to forgive. From the Healers who were paid to care for him after the war, from his friends who cared for him because they genuinely did. None of their words had worked.

Strange, then, how Malfoy’s tugged at his heart; a soft, dull sensation, but there all the same. 

So strange Harry had to push past it; “Well, I didn’t.” He stated simply. 

“I think your right, Potter. Maybe we do have more in common than we thought.” Malfoy murmured, the bed creaking as he shifted. “The dead won’t leave us. We both think we could have done… More. We think we should have saved them.” He paused to swallow and Harry held himself back from interrupting – just who had Malfoy thought he could save? He knew, from the visions, how reluctant he had been to do Voldemort’s torture, but who had he wanted to save? Just Crabbe? Or more…. 

Before Harry could ask such questions the bed creaked, more loudly as Malfoy pushed himself to stand. “And now, we’re both hiding away from the world, sleeping through all our memories.” He took a pointed glance at the empty bottle of dreamless sleep, leaving Harry staring after him in silence as he left. 

-O-

The next morning both awoke and continued as if their conversation had never happened; attending trials, eating meals and – as Malfoy had so eloquently put it – sleeping through their memories.

Yet although nothing was spoke aloud, the air seemed to shift between them. When Harry spent some of his evenings restoring the old rooms of Grimmuald Place Malfoy stopped by to watch, often sliding into work silently beside Harry, rather than retreating to his room alone. 

One evening in particular Harry was bent over ‘Home Improvements for Every Witch: Make Your Home a Haven’, smiling broadly as he basked in his own glory after successfully performing the charm to change the colour of the painted walls, when Malfoy’s drawl echoed through the hallway. 

“Please don’t tell me you’re seriously considering lemon yellow for the hallway Potter. Are you certifiably insane? Should I page St Mungo’s?” His voice was a in a familiar sneer; familiar now, but very different from that of his Hogwarts years. It was lighter, almost… Friendly?

“What would you suggest? What would you do so much better?” Harry snapped back, his pride at performing the charm diminished. 

Malfoy spun on his heel slowly as if seeing the room for the first time. He frowned, ever so slightly, as if in thought. “I’d paint it forest green, just like the outdoors…” His words tapered off as his brow darkened, a sudden – clearly negative – thought intruding “Of course, it’s not my place. No magic for the likes of ex-Death Eaters, of course not.” 

In a billow of the one pair of formal robes he’d retained to wear to the trials each day, Malfoy was gone. Harry sighed, staring after his retreating form as he heard the door of his bedroom slam floors above. 

He didn’t know what to say to make things any better.

He doubted that words would work if he tried.

But he could flip back to the page where he found the colour changing charms and he could cloak the hallway in a vibrant, life-filled green. 

So he did.

-o-

A week later – four weeks after the first Death Eater trial, four weeks after Malfoy’s first testimony – the pair arrived home after the final trial requiring Malfoy’s evidence. There was just one name left to consider, one fate left to decide – that of Draco Malfoy.

Harry dished up bowls of thick, steaming chicken and leek soup. He pushed his spoon around the bowl, barely eating himself as he watched Malfoy do the same. 

“You need to eat,” he encouraged, despite neglecting his own advice. “You need your strength.”

“Strength isn’t a lot of use in Azkaban.” Malfoy muttered darkly, his face downcast into the steam of his bowl. 

“You’re not going to Azkaban.” Harry said firmly. He spoke so firmly his voice almost shook with reverence taking him aback with the surprise of his conviction. “I won’t let you.”

Malfoy looked up, his grey eyes flashing for a fleeting moment through a series of emotions. No matter how Harry tried to work each out it was always gone a second before he could read it, leaving the next behind. “No.” His voice was weak, almost defeated.

“No?” 

“No.” Malfoy repeated, a little firmer this time. “You won’t do anything. You’ve done enough.” 

Harry opened his mouth to protest but before he could utter a single word Malfoy had cut him short. “I mean it. This is…. You made these trails possible. You gave me a place to stay. You’ve…” His gaze wavered for a moment, flickering away almost shamefully before returning to meet Harry’s, his eyes suddenly ablaze with determination. “You’ve taught me my nightmares aren’t week… You gave me the opportunity to save myself, to do something of worth… It’s up to me now. Please… It’s…” He trailed off, his gaze almost pleading with the words he was clearly struggling to say. Somehow, suddenly, Harry could read the words he didn’t speak with the utmost clarity; it’s a matter of pride. 

He should have, he reckoned, been a lot more surprised about how easy he found it to read Malfoy in that moment. Then again, deep down he knew, that the month they had spent together had shown him a lot he didn’t know. It had shown him another side to Malfoy; a side that allowed him to see that, now, it wasn’t the same pride out of bigoted love for his family name or Pureblood lifestyles that had ruled his younger days, but a matter of earning back pride for himself. A need to restore his own name, his own place in the wizarding world.

So, he nodded. 

Malfoy let out a low, whistling breath that Harry could only describe as relief. His shoulders dropped some of the tension they’d been carrying and a few of the deep lines of worry around his eyes seemed to lift. Yet his eyes themselves were still tortured and his full bowl of soup still lay untouched. 

“Look,” Harry began, rising to his feet. Malfoy watched on with a slightly quizzical gaze as Harry murmured a low, quiet Accio and a slender, polished box made its way steadily into the room and into Harry’s awaiting palm. “I kept this, after the war. I fixed mine, but I kept it because I knew you’d be needing it…” He offered the box to Malfoy, watching as he took it uncertainly, his tremoring hands betraying his emotion. “I know they’ve said you aren’t allowed – not now, anyway – but after you’ll need it. I’ll have it here for you, waiting.” 

The hinges on the box opened soundlessly as Malfoy opened up the polished wood and looked inside. Nestled safely in the velvet lining was, Harry knew, Malfoy’s wand. Malfoy’s eyes widened as they took in the sight, rounding with surprise and – for the first time in a long time, perhaps ever – genuine delight. 

“It’ll be here, waiting.” He repeated, stretching out his hand to the lid of the box. He snapped it closed before he spoke again, forcing Malfoy’s eyes to his. “You’ll come back for it, won’t you?” 

He didn’t know why he added the final words. He didn’t know why he turned his reassurances into questions. But he did and, to his relief, Malfoy nodded.

He slipped the box from his hands, watching as without anything to hold, the long, pale fingers dropped to the tables surface lifelessly.

He used his free hand to pick up Malfoy’s long forgotten spoon and pressed it into his hand, wrapping the cool white fingers around it. He steadfastly ignored the way his own palms tingled as they ghosted over Malfoy’s. 

“Eat.” He instructed, withdrawing his hand to take his own spoon. Half of him was relieved as the tingling in his palms ebbed away, the other longing for more. He shut that half of his subconscious up by feeding it a heavy spoonful of soup. 

“Eat.” He repeated for a second time once he had swallowed through his own first serving with difficulty – it tasted delicious, as it always did, but the tension in the room was far too heavy to enjoy the meal before him. “Or no Gin.”

He hadn’t expected the threat to work, but as a ghost of a smile fanned across Malfoy’s lips and his spoon dipped into the bowl, bringing a softly steaming gulp of soup to his thin, pale lips, Harry was glad he had made it. 

-o-

The next morning a Ministry escort had arrived early, poking at the tightly-guarded wards of Harry’s Floo. He and Malfoy were long ready, in fact they’d been both sat fully dressed and staring at the old grandfather clock for forty minutes when Harry first felt the signs on intrusion.

“What..?” He had murmured aloud, his brow furrowing as he leapt toward the Floo. A quick wave of his wand told him the identity of the wizard pressing at his wards – an official from Magical Law Enforcement – causing the creases of confusion on his forehead to deepen. What were they doing calling at his door? Malfoy wasn’t due in the Ministry for his trial for – he checked the clock behind him briefly, despite the fact he’d done nothing but stare at it for almost an hour – another 35 minutes at least. They had plenty of time. Maybe… Had something gone wrong? Had they cancelled the trial and made a decision? After all the effort Malfoy had put into his testimonies, the resolve he’d shown under such blatant hatred from all sides… Or… - for some reason, Harry’s breath causght in his chest - had something gone right? Had they decided not to bother with the trial and simply announce Malfoy a free man thanks to his contributions? As he murmured the incantation to permit the wards to allow this visitor, Harry tried to tell himself he was being foolish – yes, Malfoy’s testimonies had indeed supported the incarceration of several highly dangerous wizards and witches and, in a few cases, had provided the key evidence in finding them guilty of Dark crimes – but he knew deep down that the Ministry would never overlook Malfoy’s own part in the war so easily. He moved back, both to allow the wizard room to enter and to ensure he was on his feet rather than sprawling over the floor in a rather undignified manor. He didn’t have time to answer Malfoys questioning eyebrow – the only expression on his waxy, colourless face – so simply shrugged as the flames flared brightly and a tall, burly wizard stepped into the room. 

“Good morning Mr Potter, sir, terribly sorry for the inconvenience,” he had greeted, his tone formal as if he were reading a scripted line; which, of course, he probably was. His words only fogged around Harry’s brain; however, as they didn’t actually give in any clue as to what the wizard was doing in his house.

“Perhaps if you could tell me what you were doing here, I’d be more open to accepting it.” He retorted, as much for his own assurance as Malfoy’s – who, the moment the wizard had spoken, had shot Harry a stare so accusing in nature it made his stomach drop like a stone. 

“To escort Mr Malfoy to his trial, of course.” The wizard had replied, looking genuinely confused for a moment. “All wizards under house arrest suspected of crimes related to Dark magic must be escorted to their trials by a Ministry official.” His explanation was almost tarty, as if Harry were an idiot for not seeing the response the wizard so clearly understood.

“I’m taking him.” Harry had said, pressing on when the wizards eyebrows shot up in surprise. “What? I’ve taken him to all of his other trials. I’ll be taking him to this one.” 

The skin around the wizard’s eyes had crinkled for a moment and in the same moment he tightened his lips as if suppressing laughter. “You escorted Mr Malfoy to his testimonies while he was under house arrest at your property. Today is Mr Malfoy’s own criminal trial and, as decreed by the Wizengamot in 1745, any witch or wizard suspected of Dark crimes should have direct restraint from a Law Enforcement official. Not that I am putting you down in any way of course, Mr Potter, but situations such as this require professional enforcement.” The wizard puffed his chest out in a way Harry thought he had probably believed made him look proud but, in fact, had made him look like a rather bloated toad. 

“He’s hardly a dangerous criminal! He’s helped fill half the cells in Azkaban, for Merlin’s sake!” Harry had raged, his common curtesy escaping him as his emotions flew to the forefront. 

“Mr Malfoy’s contribution to the securing and detaining of Dark criminals has been highly appreciated by the Ministry and all its employees.” The wizards gaze had flickered to Malfoy as he spoke, casting him a sneer that showed Harry all he needed to see to know the wizards words were a pile of Crup dung. “However, during today’s events where the Ministry must ask questions of his connections with Dark magic, procedure must be followed. Any witch or wizard presenting a threat of Dark magic to the Ministry must be properly restrained.”

“Threat? Restrained?” Harry had repeated, his voice raising incredulously with every word. “He hasn’t even got a wand!” 

“Stop it.” A tiny voice had called from the corner. Harry stopped, allowed his jaw to drop in the most undignified gape, and turned to Malfoy as if only just remembering he was there. “If it’s what the Ministry requires, of course I will comply.” Malfoy stood, brushing imaginary dust from his formal robes. To anyone else – especially to the wizard beside Harry, who let out a low growl of annoyance – it would look like a self-absorbed, egotistic action. To Harry – who had become quite the expert on Malfoy without realising it – he saw it for what it was; a gesture to outwardly show pride, whilst hiding the nervous trembling of his hands. 

“Malfoy-“ Harry had begun, reaching out his hand to do something – he wasn’t quite sure what – before Malfoy silenced him with a single, pleading look, which made the words die on his lips and his arm fall limply to his side. 

“Thank you for everything, Harry.” Malfoy had nodded, his voice strangled, as he stepped past Harry with a single, penetrating glance which rooted Harry to the spot. His face, pale and narrow, was a mask of calm that his father would have been proud of. His eyes, however, the grey doors to the soul Harry had begun to know, were swirling with a single, endless emotion – fear. He yearned to reach out, to touch him, take his hand, assure him that everything would be alright… But the blonde was gone from his grasp and Harry’s empty palm flexed uselessly by his side. Instead he watched as Malfoy nodded again to the wizard who had come to collect him and allowed his arm to be taken and his body to be manhandled into the fireplace. 

It was only after the flames had faded away that Harry had realised Malfoy had called him by his first name. 

-o-

Harry did a number of things while he waited for Malfoy – or should it be Draco, now that he had called him Harry? Musing over the sound of his first name on the blonde’s lips and how it would feel to say his given name in return was one of the things that took up most of Harry’s time as the hours stretched before of him. 

He did other things, of course, such as clearing out the pantry and cleaning the bathroom. 

He paced the living room floor endlessly, and testing out how Draco sounded on his lips. 

He finished redecorating the hallway, he had gone with Malf- Draco’s choice in colour after all, and read his latest issue of Quidditch Quarterly. 

He stared into the flames willing the now familiar figure to appear, and watched the clock as it seemed to drag each second by.

He seriously considered changing the batteries (because surely the time wasn’t passing that slowly?) before he realised that in an old Wizarding home such as this, everything would be run on magic. 

He prepared a meal, setting out food on two plates out of habit, although both were left untouched. 

Gin provided a good alternative to good, the clear liquid slipping down his throat like an old friend. 

He watched as the clock struck 6. Ministry closing time. He had been gone for almost 9 hours. Harry had known the trial would likely be a long one – the deliberation over his past and present actions toward the wizard world would certainly bring cause for debate – but, whatever the outcome, it should have been reached by now. The witches and wizards of the Ministry would be streaming through the Floo’s home, Draco’s fate decided. 

The beat of Harry’s heart seemed to drag as slowly as the clock as its hand ticked by, the open bottle and glass on the low table before him – he quickly summoned another for when Draco arrived back - each second dragging as if an eternity.

Seconds that became minutes.

Minutes that became an hour.

An hour that became several.

Until the grandfather clock he stared at struck a deep, low sound, striking the heart of night.

Midnight.

It was midnight, and Draco wasn’t back.

His palms were sweaty and his mouth bone dry. Surely… Surely they hadn’t kept him? Yes, he’d made mistakes. Yes, he had been a massive git. But he wasn’t dangerous… He was….

With a promise to investigate in the morning Harry took himself to bed, stumbling more than once thanks to the glasses of gin that had supported his wait. Apparently with no-one around to fill the second glass for Harry had felt as if he should drink for two. As he slipped beneath the sheets and noxed out the lights it took him several more hours to find sleep as his mind tried to finish his earlier sentence and, furthermore, tried to figure out why he cared.

-o-

After a few short hours of fitful sleep Harry threw on a clean pair of robes and, with a vial of hangover potion downed but without stopping for breakfast, disappeared through his Floo to the Ministry Atrium. His woozy head thankfully began to lift as he made his way along the shiny, tiled floors toward the sign-in point. He glared impatiently at the witches and wizards before him as they wandered through to the visitor’s desk without urgency. Thankfully his status as The-Boy-Who-Saved-Us-All came in useful as each before him turned to recognise him, shuffling aside to allow him to take their place in the line. 

“Oh, Mr Potter, what an honour…”

“Here, Mr Potter, take my spot, I’m only here to visit my cousin – not that you need to know, of course, I mean – I mean I’m sure you’re here on much more important business…”

“Merlin… It’s Harry Potter! Come right through, sir…”

Ordinarily Harry would have cringed at the special attention but at the moment in time he wanted nothing but to move through the crowd, his desire to find out what had happened to Draco burning like Fiendfyre. 

“Good morning and welcome to the Ministry of Magic. Please state your nam-“ The welcome witch began to greet politely before blinking in recognition. “Mr Potter! Of course you don’t need to state your name.” She laughed, as if it were a joke Harry would find hilarious. He attempted his best smile, though he remained tight-lipped, burning with the anticipation of finding Draco. “Everyone knows who you are, of course.” She continued, dropping her voice now to what she probably hoped was a seductive tone – at least judging by the way she fluttered her eyelashes at him. 

“Er… Yeah.” Harry managed lamely; he’d always been a useless flirt even in the cases where he’d been most inclined to do it. The welcome witch before him was pretty; he supposed – with wide blue eyes and dark, shiny hair that fell in soft curls down her robes which curved in the most womanly of places… But, if he was honest with himself about one thing at least, it was those womanly curves which were the reason he had found himself reluctant to return to Ginny. 

“So, Mr Potter, what is your reason for visiting the Ministry today?” She asked, apparently not disturbed by Harry’s less than enthusiastic response, her lashes still fluttering as she offered him a coy smile. 

“I’m… Er…” Harry trailed off, thrown. He doubted that ‘here to locate a Death-Eater-turned-informant after his own trial, for reasons I haven’t fully considered myself yet’, although true, would not be an appropriate answer to the question. “I’m here to see…” He really should have thought this through before barrelling straight into the Ministry, he supposed. If Kingsley hurried up and found his way to being Minister… 

If Harry were in a muggle cartoon, a light bulb would have no doubt appeared above his head at that moment. “I’m here to see Kingsley Shacklebolt.” 

“Do you have an appointment?” The witch asked, still batting her eyelashes. The effect was beginning to make Harry feel rather dizzy – and not in the way the witch undoubtedly hoped. 

“Er… No.” Harry said. “But he told me I should drop by whenever I could. He has a… Well, he’s got a job offer for me.” This much was true – or, at least, it had been. Kinglsey had told him to drop by whenever to discuss the opportunity to fast-track onto the Auror programme; he didn’t need to mention that he’d already done that, spoken to Head Auror Robard’s at length and declined their offer of special treatment in order to consider his options a little while longer. But, of course, the welcome witch didn’t need to know that. 

“Well were only supposed to let Mr Shacklebolt see those who have an appointment, what with him being preparing for the elections and all.” She said, sighing dramatically as if she were doing Harry an enormous favour. “But, of course, I’m sure he would be able to make time for Harry Potter. I’m sure he’ll be glad for us all to see your on his side in the elections?” 

“Er… Yeah.” Harry said. He wasn’t sure if he should have aired his opinions on the election so clearly – but then again it would only be a matter of time before The Prophet moved away from its grim coverage of the trials to the election and then Harry’s relationship with Kingsley was bound to be discovered. 

“In that case, I’m sure he’ll see you now.” A single wave of her wand gave way to a visitor’s pass which read ‘Harry Potter visiting Kingsley Shacklebolt. Private meeting.’ She then stood, tossing her hair over her shoulder flirtily and leant forward, pressing the badge to Harry’s chest with hands that lingered across his muscles a little longer than they should. Longer than they needed to at all, Harry realised, when he saw how the welcome witch beside his used a simple spell to charm the pass onto the visitor’s robes. 

“Thank you. Err… Have a nice day.” Harry said, dropping his head in embarrassment and scuttling away as quickly as possible. 

Thankfully his different appearances at the Ministry in recent weeks, from discussing his own career options with the Auror’s to attending the many different trials Draco spoke at, Harry now felt confident enough to navigate the twisting corridors to Kingsley’s office. When he arrived at the department he was met with another desk and a second welcome witch behind it. 

“Name.” She announced abruptly as he stood before her.

“Harry Potter.” He said, inwardly preparing himself to cringe when the recognition passed across the witches features.

Instead she simply continued in the same, monotone voice; “to see?” She asked.

“Um… Kingsley Shacklebolt.” He replied. Harry was slightly thrown by the welcome witches… less than welcome nature but was relieved to be around someone who didn’t feel the need to change their personality for The Boy Who Lived. 

“I have no appointments here for a Harry Potter to see Mr Shacklebolt.”

“That’s because… Well, I don’t have one. But, you see, he said I could drop by anytime, he has a jo-“ 

The witch cut in mid-word, reducing Harry to silence. “To see Mr Shacklebolt you require an appointment. Appointments can be made with myself but Mr Shacklebolts schedule is full until next Tuesday.”

“He already told me it’s fine to drop by. If you’d just let me see him, he can tell you himse-“

“Mr Shacklebolt sees visitors by appointment only.” The witch cut in once again. Crazily, Harry found himself longing for the flirty witch at the visitors welcome desk. “You may make an appointment –“

A door behind the witch a little to the left at the head of the corridor, opened with a very slight creak. “It’s ok, let Mr Potter in.” 

The witch huffed, looking very dismayed at the fact she had been overruled – even by Kingsley himself. Harry suppressed a grin and slipped past the witches desk and through the door Kingsley had left ajar. He closed it behind him and, seeing that Kingsley had already sunk back into his office chair, took a seat in front of his desk.

“I think I already know what this is about.” Kingsley said, his tone already appearing weary. “Draco Malfoy?”

Harry nodded, licking his lips nervously. His heart was beating a little faster than it should, as if the erratic thud of it against his chest was asking him the questions he feared Kingsley would ‘Why? Why are you here? Why do you care?’

“I’m afraid I can tell you very little Harry.” At Harry’s opened mouth – he was about to protest that Kingsley, one of the key wizards in charge of arranging the deal for Draco to give testimony against other Death Eaters and a potential future Minister for Magic, would surely know the outcome - Kingsley held up a silencing hand. “I do know. That doesn’t mean I’m permitted to tell you.”

Harry deflated instantly. He should have known, really, that the outcome around the trial would be hushed. If it had been public knowledge there would have no doubt been a late-evening edition of the Prophet with all the gruesome details. “At least tell me… He’s not…” Harry couldn’t bring himself to say it. 

“In Azkaban?” Kinglsey asked.

Harry nodded. ‘Don’t ask me why’ his brain attempted to add, although the words didn’t quite make it past his lips. He hoped his face could convey the message appropriately. 

“No, he’s not.” Kingsley said. Harry found his shoulders sagging entirely, his emotions ripping him in two. Half of him was relieved, beyond relieved, that Draco hadn’t been sent there. The other half… If Draco was free, and he hadn’t contacted Harry… Harry swallowed an uncomfortable lump in his throat. He didn’t know what it meant and he wasn’t in a rush to confront his feelings. 

“Look, Harry… I’ll only say this. I don’t know why your so invested in Draco Malfoy – don’t worry, I’m not going to ask. You look as if you don’t quite know yourself.” At that Kingsley chuckled, a low sound vibrating in his throat as if his body wasn’t used to laughter anymore. “You’re a brilliant wizard and you’re an even better man. You did the right thing, fighting for him, helping him be free... But if you’ve done all this for him and he hasn’t sought you out… Perhaps it would be better for you if you left him. Move on with your life. You know the offer of the Auror’s always stands.”

Harry nodded mutely, Kingsley’s words echoing pointlessly in his ears. His mind was already racing, thinking of the places Draco could be. He hadn’t come back to Grimmuald Place, the only place Harry could think of was The Manor. Then again, surely the Malfoy’s had other property? A rich, pureblood family was sure to have more than one home… 

“Harry.” Kingsley said, snapping him from his thoughts. “Go home. Forget about Draco Malfoy. Consider my offer.”

Harry nodded wearily, shook hands with Kingsley and assured him he would do ask he was asked – he wouldn’t of course. He’d already made his mind up about the Auror’s, at least for now. As for Malfoy…

He’d always been a little bit obsessed, hadn’t he?

-o-

The next day, an owl to Malfoy had gone without reply. 

The next week, another owl met the same fate. 

One evening, three weeks since he stormed in on Kingsley, Harry screwed up the parchment he had been writing on and threw it into the fireplace. It had been the start of a third letter but, after starting with ‘Dear Malfoy’, Harry had been unable to find any words to say. He had been able to convince himself – despite the fact his owl returned safe and well – that something might have happened to the first letter so writing the second had been easy. When the owl returned without response the second time Harry had spent a week brooding, unable to do anything but accept his messages were being ignored. 

As what would have been his third letter burnt away in the flames of his hearth Harry watched, his eyes fixated on the parchment until it resembled nothing but char. With a heaving sigh he stood and headed for the cupboard; a good glass of gin (or several) would be the key to easing his mind and welcoming sleep. 

“Shit.” He muttered, seeing the empty space where the last bottle had been. He’d meant to go shopping today, but then he’d got caught up with a visit from Hermione and looking into what in Merlin’s name he wanted to do with his life…

At the moment in time, the answer to that question was simple;

Have a bloody drink.

He gazed down at his general attire; his jeans were a dark denim – no holes in this pair, thankfully – and his t-shirt was a simple dark green – luckily without any evidence of the lasagne he’d eaten with Hermione. It would do, he was sure, as he headed out into the hallway and grabbed a jacket and toed on one of his more acceptable pairs of shoes. He could easily go to the muggle corner shop and buy some more, but there was something about the thought going out for the sole purpose of buying alcohol to drink alone that made Harry feel depressed. He hadn’t been out in a while and – probably because of the amount of time he spent friendless in his younger years – never felt awkward about being out alone. He left the house and descended the stairs into the street, enjoying the cool breeze of the air against his cheeks. It would do him good, he thought, to get out into the world. To spend a night watching the muggle world go by rather than sitting and brooding of Draco Malfoy. 

He walked for some time, enjoying the fresh feeling of the outside – well, as fresh as London got, anyway – before turning onto a road he knew held a few muggle bars that he had seen but never visited. Eventually he chose one at random and slipped inside. The interior didn’t disappoint; it was clean, modern and bright but at the same time seemed to have a familiar, welcoming atmosphere. He slid over to the bar, taking his jacket off and throwing it over his arm, lifting his gaze to the bar to order before he stopped in his tracks.

Three weeks. Three weeks it had been since he last saw him with his pale, narrow face carefully arranged into an exterior of calm but with deep, grey eyes which had – at least, to Harry – no bottom in the depth of the fear the showed.

“Malfoy?” The name was a question, even though it had no need to be. Three weeks, of course, had been nowhere near enough to forget his face. 

The figure behind the bar jumped, clearly surprised by the name – or, perhaps, the speaker? Could it be Draco knew his voice, had memorised his tone without seeing his face? As the shock covering his features gave way and he recovered his demeanour a slow, easy smirk – which, in all honesty, was rather more of a smile – spread across his face. “Well, of all the gin joints.” He joked as Harry reached the bar. 

His humour fell on deaf ears. Harry’s mind was raging, swirling with half-formed, unanswered questions. How did Draco-? Why was he-? Why had he not-? 

“What are you doing?” Harry’s question was blunt and, he hoped, carried – albeit unintelligently – the weight of all of the questions his scrambled brain wanted to ask.

Draco’s easy smile faltered, wobbling for a moment before it dropped completely with a long, steady sigh. “I finish at 12.” He said, his eyes flickering to a clock behind him atop of the bar – it was ten minutes to, just how long had Harry been wandering? “They’ll stay open until one. Take a seat and I’ll come over.” 

Numbly, Harry nodded, turning his back to the bar and to Draco and making steps to move away.

“Potter.” The familiar voice called, bringing him back. He turned on his heel to see Draco offering out a glass of clear liquid in – or was Harry imagining this part? – a nervously wavering hand. “You can’t sit without a drink.” 

Again, Harry nodded, taking the glass and ignoring the sparks which flew through him as their fingers brushed. Drink in hand he sloped toward a free table in the corner, bringing the glass to his lips and allowing the familiar, welcome taste of gin to wash over his lips. 

The minutes seemed to drag by, and with each moment that passed his questions took root, twisting and gnawing at his stomach. What was Draco Malfoy doing behind a bar in muggle London? How did he end up there? What had happened at his trial? Those questions, however important, fleeted pointlessly around his mind. The only question that mattered to Harry, as he resolutely attempted to keep his eyes away from the man behind the bar was; why didn’t he come to me?

The clink of glass against the wooden table startled Harry from his thoughts and he looked up to see Draco, two glasses now deposited on the table, as he slipped onto the stool opposite Harry. “Thought you could use a refill.”

“You didn’t call me Harry.” 

“What?”

Harry shook himself for a moment at Draco’s startled expression and had to take a moment to realise what he had actually said to the man before him. Of all the questions he’d thought of, all the answered he wanted, apparently this was the one his subconscious felt most appropriate to start with. 

Oh well, he thought, no point backing down now. “Just now when you called me back.. You called me Potter. But, before, well…. Last time… When…” Harry trailed off pointlessly, trying and failing to think of how to phrase ‘the day you left’ without sounding completely pathetic, “You called me Harry then. You didn’t now.” 

Draco was looking at Harry with disbelief, his jaw slightly open and his eyes widened. Harry felt the heat flare in his cheeks – clearly the effort his brain had put into making him not sound pathetic had horrendously backfired – and fought the urge to bury his head in his hands. “You called me Malfoy.” He responded after a moment. “I assumed the gesture wasn’t welcomed.” 

Had he? Harry thought back, but honestly couldn’t remember what he said when he first saw the man in front of him again. He had been calling Draco, well – Draco, for so long in his mind now he had just figured his lips would follow suit. “Sorry. Well, it is.” Harry said, hoping to move past the awkwardness with minimal damage. “So, what happened to you?” 

Draco sighed, pulling one of the glasses toward him and cradling it. He didn’t drink, just stared into the clear depths of the glass, and Harry allowed him the moment to gather his thoughts – he selfishly needed the same. “Probation.”Draco said, rather simply, when he finally spoke. “I’m on probation for one year. No magic. No spells, no house elves, no apparating, nothing.” 

As the words settled over Harry he tried to think of what to say – despite living the first eleven years of his life as a muggle, he couldn’t imagine having his right to perform magic taken away from him. For Draco, whom had spent his entire life raised around wizardry, he knew it must be heart-breaking. Still, his most important question was left unanswered. “Why didn’t you come back? Why didn’t you tell me?” 

“You… You had my wand. You’d said I could have it back. I wanted to wait… I…” The glass that had become the focus of Draco’s gaze for so long was now titled to his lips and drained completely before he slammed it back to the table. When he did he lifted his gaze to Harry; his eyes were watering, ever so slightly, with unshed tears. Harry’s gut twisted at the sight. “I didn’t want to disappoint you.” He breathed, so quietly Harry barely heard him. 

As it often did with Harry, the twist of pain in his stomach became a fire of rage, designed to protect those he…. Harry’s mind flew past the final word of that thought and his mouth flared into action. “You should have told me. I would have done something!” 

“You’d done enough already.” Draco smiled, the expression at odds with the water pooling in his eyes. The sight was so strange, so raw, that it stunned Harry into silence. His rage quelled, the fire burning away as he sat, staring. 

“I don’t care.” He whispered eventually. “You should have told me. I would have done something. I’ll still do something. You can’t just – You have to – You shouldn’t be –“ With each false start, Harry pushed away words he didn’t have the courage to speak. You can’t just leave me. You have to come back. You shouldn’t be alone. 

“You’ve done more than enough for me, Harry.” Draco murmured, and Harry didn’t miss the sound of his name of the other man’s lips again. “Before you came… In the war, under The Dark Lord, before you saved my life… In the Ministry cells before you took me away…” A faraway look crossed Draco’s face, but not one that would normally be seen, full of light and daydream. This one was dark, painful, twisted… But, Harry sensed, important. He let Draco relive the memories he needed to, allowing him the time to speak. “I used to dream of being alive. That was all. Just of breathing, of staying alive, of seeing the next day. Not of actually living.” Harry nodded – a poor response to some, but between them, with the histories they shared, he knew it would count. “Now I don’t. Now... Now I only waste it dreaming of you.” 

“Draco.” Harry said. It was all he could say. The first time it had left his lips, the first time he had said it aloud and it felt so right, as if he had been saying it all his life. It seemed a pitiful reply to the way Draco had bared his soul so openly, but from the shiver that passed down the blonde’s spine, Harry knew it was enough.

In that moment, Harry also knew a lot more. He leant forward, closing the small distance the table put between them and covered Draco’s lips with his own. The kiss was strange; it was broken, bitter, and full of the pain that had passed between them yet at the same time it was soft, gentle and full of revelation. It was, Harry felt, a kiss that let go of the past and embraced the future. Harry felt one of the tears that had filled Draco’s eyes slip into the kiss and, as he parted his lips to beg for entrance to Draco’s mouth, tasted the bitter saltiness of his tears alongside the warm flavouring of gin. 

When their kiss finally ended Harry stood, extended his hand, and smiled as long, thin fingers slipped into his. 

“Harry.” Draco said, as if answering Harry’s words before the kiss. 

“Draco.” He repeated, the name rolling over his tongue with a sweet pleasure that not even the finest gin could match.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it for this story guys. Hope everyone enjoyed this - thank you for the kudos and comments, I appreciate all feedback, so if you enjoyed this please let me know! :)


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